"He did, and nothing but God's protecting grace saved me from bodily harm in my own house while protecting my daughter's honor."
"But, mother," cried Rita, weeping, "you are wrong. If there was any wrong, it was I who did it."
"You don't know! Oh, that I should live to see what I did see, and endure what I have endured this day for the sake of an ungrateful daughter—oh, sharper than a serpent's tooth, as the good book says—to be insulted—I never! I never!"
Rita, of course, had been weeping during her mother's harangue; but when the old woman took up her meaningless refrain, "I never! I never!" the girl's sobs became almost convulsive. Mrs. Bays saw her advantage and determined not to lose it.
"Promise me," demanded this tender mother, rudely shaking the girl, "promise me you will never speak to him again."
Rita did not answer—she could not, and the demand was repeated. Still Rita answered not.
"If you don't promise me, I'll leave your bedside. I'll never speak your name again."
"Oh, mother," sobbed the girl, "I beg you not to ask that promise of me. I can't give it. I can't. I can't."
"Give me the promise this instant, or I'll disown you. Do you promise?"
The old woman bent fiercely over her daughter and waited stonily for an answer. Rita shrank from her, but could not resist the domineering old creature, so she whispered:—